The Casino

The sliding doors parted like they'd been waiting for me--psshhhht--and the casino swallowed me whole. That hit of air conditioning on my skin made my nipples tighten through the halter of my dress. My cock still throbbed behind the silk of my panties, leaking, barely tucked, daring anyone to look twice.

I strutted through the lights, slot machines screaming like electronic sirens, cocktail waitresses in too-tight skirts trailing trays of watered-down temptation. I wasn't here to gamble. Not on chips.

I was still glowing, high from the last man's release--his taste, his breath, his surrender--but it wasn't enough. I needed more. Craved more. And the crowd here? They were all adrenaline and ego, men drunk on luck and loss. The perfect playground for a gurl like me.

I passed a table--blackjack--and leaned on the rail, arms folded to press my tits up just right. One of the players glanced, blinked, and forgot the count. Another looked down, eyes catching the flash of lace at my inner thigh when I shifted my weight. Hooked.

I didn't smile. I let my mouth part just enough to make it look like I was thinking something filthy.

And I was.

I scanned the room. Older men in suits. Tourists with polos and paunches. A few couples, but they didn't matter. I was looking for the kind of man who thought he was in control--until he met me.

There. Corner of the bar. Tall. Lean. Grey at the temples. Wedding ring, but not on tonight. He was sipping something brown, scanning the crowd like a wolf with a credit limit. I approached without hesitation.

Each step was a statement. Each sway of my hips, a dare.

I slid onto the barstool beside him, let my legs cross slow. The thigh-highs did the talking.

He turned. Eyes dark. A flick of recognition. A pause.

"You here alone?" I asked, voice like silk over a knife edge.

"For now," he said. "You looking to change that?"

I tilted my head. "Maybe. You any good at following instructions?"

He smiled--wry, curious, intrigued.

I leaned in, close enough for him to smell my perfume, to feel the heat radiating off the body that had already swallowed one man tonight and was ready for another.

He was watching me. Not just the casual glance men give when they want to pretend they're not staring. This was different. Calculated. He scanned my face, my chest, my legs... and lingered just a second too long on the curve between my thighs.

I saw the moment it hit him. That flicker behind his eyes--wait. That internal stutter. The mental gears grinding as the image in front of him refused to match the narrow catalog in his head.

I didn't flinch. I never do. I met his gaze and licked my bottom lip slowly, letting him wonder if I knew what he was thinking. I always know.

He turned back to his drink. Took a slow sip like maybe the ice would kill the heat rising in his groin. Like maybe he could shake off the truth his cock was screaming.

Fine, I thought. Let him stew.

I peeled off that barstool like I was shedding a second skin and moved back into the crowd. If he couldn't handle it, someone else would. And just like that, I was gone again--heels clicking on marble, hunger leading me into the next chapter. Tonight wasn't over.

I took a lap. Played the room. A hand brushed mine--too nervous. Another man tried to talk, but stammered. One leaned in too fast, too sloppy. I wanted hunger that respected the art of it. Someone who understood I wasn't a trick--I was a temptress. A siren in thigh-highs and smudged eyeliner, aching to be worshipped, not just fucked.

And still... I felt him watching.

The man at the bar hadn't moved. But his eyes followed every step I took. I could feel them crawling over me, heating the backs of my thighs, pulsing at the base of my spine.

His drink sat untouched now. His leg bounced under the bar.

The longer he looked, the harder he got. You could see it in the way his jaw tensed, like he was fighting himself, like his body was betraying whatever old idea of "normal" he still clung to.

I made it easy for him. I walked past one more time, slow and deliberate, ass swaying like it had a mission. I stopped just near enough to let him smell me. Turned my head. Let my hair fall over one eye.

"You keep looking like that," I said without facing him, "and I'm gonna think you want me."

Silence. I waited.

Then, quietly: "I do."

I turned, smirked, let my eyes glide over the bulge in his slacks. "Even knowing what I've got between my legs?"

He hesitated. It sat on his tongue like a prayer he didn't how to say.

Then, finally, low and rough: "Especially knowing."

I leaned in close, just shy of kissing distance. "Then stop pretending you're conflicted, baby. Take me upstairs and show me what a brave man does when he's dying for something he never thought he'd want."

I slid my hand over his thigh grazing his hardness. He was already hard. They were always hard when I teased them then told them what I needed.

His voice was hoarse. "There's a suite upstairs. Company card."

He stood. His hand trembled slightly as he laid a hundred on the bar.

I trailed one finger down his chest as we walked toward the elevator. "You're not the first," I whispered. "But you might be the first who begs."

He didn't answer. But the pulse in his neck told me everything I needed.

And my cock--still thick, still caged in silk--twitched at the thought of how deep I could take this. How far I could make him fall.

The elevator doors sealed with a soft ding, and then it was just the two of us in a steel chamber of humming tension. I stood to his right, one hand on the brass railing, back straight, body poised, cock still stiff and proud beneath that silk--pressing, demanding.

He glanced at me again, this time longer. No more hesitation, just that wide-eyed pull of a man about to step into something irreversible.

I caught his stare. Smirked. Whispered.

"You've been thinking about this longer than you admit, haven't you?"

He didn't answer, but his breath hitched. Good. Truth didn't always need words--it lived in blood flow, in the twitch of a finger, in the helpless hardening of his cock.

Ding. Suite floor.

He opened the door for me like he was escorting a goddess. I walked past him slow, letting my ass graze his thigh, my scent in his lungs. The room was upscale--clean lines, rich fabrics, a view of the city glittering through full-length windows. But he wasn't seeing any of that.

He was watching me.

I dropped my clutch on the credenza and turned. "Lock the door."

He obeyed.

I slid my fingers up the side of my thigh, lifting the hem of my dress just enough to show the soaked edge of my panties, the rigid outline beneath.

"I let a man cum in my mouth tonight," I said casually.

He watched me like he wasn't sure what kind of god he'd just let into his temple.

"I didn't get mine earlier," I said, peeling off my dress with practiced ease, letting it fall to the floor in a soft, deliberate puddle. "And tonight's not over until I do."

My panties clung to me--dark silk stretched taut over the thick ridge of me, still soaked from the tension I'd carried since the first man drained himself into my throat. But I'd given then. Now I wanted to take.

I walked toward him, eyes fixed on his face. His breath was shallow. I pushed him backward onto the bed and stood above him, one leg on the mattress, panties pulled aside--not off--just enough to let my cock out like a prize.

It throbbed in the low light, flushed and leaking, twitching with that exquisite edge only denial creates.

I straddled his chest, the head of my cock brushing his lips.

"You want to make me cum?" I asked, voice like velvet sin.

He nodded, desperate.

"Then open your fucking mouth and prove it."

And oh--he did.

His lips parted, and I slid in slow, letting the first drop of precum smear across his tongue. He moaned like it fed him. I fed him more.

Inch by inch, his mouth welcomed me. Hot. Wet. Hungry.

I set the rhythm. Slow at first, teasing, letting him feel the pulse of me on his tongue. Then faster. Deeper. I held his face, my nails lightly grazing his jaw as I fucked his mouth with purpose, control, claiming.

My voice dropped, thick with heat. "That's it, baby. Take it. All of it. You feel how hard I am? You did that. Don't stop until I cover your fucking throat."

He moaned around me, the vibration tightening my core. My thighs clenched. My hands grabbed his head, guiding him, using him.

I looked down and saw his eyes--glazed over, pupils blown, like he wasn't even thinking anymore. Just surrendering. Lost in it.

"Good boy," I breathed. "Just like that. Don't come up for air until I'm done."

I was close now. So close. My cock was pulsing, swelling in his mouth. I could feel the heat surging, the build, the need--

Then I shoved deep and held.

"Swallow it. Every drop."

I came hard--thick ropes of heat spilling straight down his throat. He choked slightly, but swallowed, gulping around me like I was his only meal. My moan came from somewhere low and primal, long and guttural, my body arching as I emptied myself into him.

I stayed there, buried in his mouth, hands in his hair, trembling as the last pulses shuddered through me. When I finally pulled out, his lips were slick, his chin messy, his eyes still dazed.

I slid down beside him, still half-dressed, cock wet and twitching from the aftershocks, and turned my head.

"Now you," I purred.

I reached down and wrapped my fingers around his cock--beyond hard, already leaking--and grinned.

"I'm going to show you what cock lust really means."

And then I was on him.

Mouth wide. Eyes locked. My tongue curled under his head like I'd been waiting all night for this flavor. I sucked him in deep and greedy, letting spit spill, letting him feel how hungry I was--not for a man.

For cock.

Every sound he made, every twitch, every buck--I devoured it.

I moaned around him, dragging the sound from my throat like a promise. I loved cock. His, mine, any--all. And I let him know it.

I bobbed harder, faster, sloppier, one hand stroking the base while the other pressed his hips down, holding him prisoner to my worship.

He came quick--helpless. I didn't stop. Swallowed him down just like he had done me. Messy. Raw. Honest.

And when he was spent, breathless and glassy-eyed, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, leaned close, and whispered:

"You'll dream of that for the rest of your life."

I stood, still radiating power, cock softening but spirit high.

And he? He just lay there.

Ruined.

Satisfied.

Converted.

I left him sprawled on those rumpled sheets, chest rising like a tide after shipwreck, lips swollen, throat painted, cock twitching with the last flickers of overstimulation. I didn't kiss him goodbye. Just bent to gather my dress from the floor, the silk sliding up my body like it missed me.

In the mirror by the door, I reapplied my lipstick.

Cherry red. Wicked perfect.

There was no shame in the smears, the run in my thigh-high, the damp cling of my panties. That wasn't mess. That was proof.

I slipped my heels back on, adjusted my wig with a practiced flick, and walked out without looking back.